I am seven years old, and my arm dangles out of the rolled-down window as my three brothers and I sit in my father’s car. We are driving through Rome and listening to I Successi Degli Anni 70, the compilation CD that defined my childhood and introduced me to Italy’s rich musical history.

The music is blaring loud over the stereo, and we are all singing along to the legend Rino Gaetano at the top of our lungs. “Ma il cielo è sempre più blu,” I belt out—the “u” in “blu” drags on so long that my little lungs run out of air, but I keep trying anyway. The volume is so high that the speaker crackles in protest, and I wonder if my family will turn deaf earlier than most, but I can’t imagine it any other way.